


Orbital Mechanics

by Elenothar



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Asexuality, Domestic Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Mild Adventure, of a Doctor sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 21:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17394398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: It’s not that the Doctor doesn’tdodomestic, as such, despite all evidence (and claims) to the contrary. The truth is that he’s just horrendously bad at it.





	Orbital Mechanics

**Author's Note:**

> Recently fell back into Doctor Who, and this was the result. Almost a 5+1 but not quite.

 

*

 

**1\. Jack**

 

The TARDIS is a little bit on fire. This happens with some frequency for a spaceship that should, by rights, never even see a spark for a whole lot of (boring) safety reasons, so the Doctor isn’t too worried about it. He pats at a few sparks smouldering near the directional pointer, heedless of the tiny burns springing up all over his fingers.

 

The TARDIS’ displeasure shivers through the grating beneath his feet and his mind with equal fervour, making him wince.

 

 _Sorry, old girl_.

 

The feeling of displeasure intensifies, leaving him feeling a little bit miffed. It isn’t like he’d _intended_ to pilot her right into the middle of a fire fight between Sontaran and Rutan Host battle fleets. He hadn’t even known they’d been in that _sector_ of space this century, much less in the lovely little spot he’d thought to watch the birth of a far-off new star from. Well, formerly lovely now, he supposes.

 

For all that she keeps him sane most days, there are certain downsides to being accountable to one’s sentient ship. Especially when one is as much of a trouble-magnet as the Doctor is (even when he isn’t trying).

 

“And I got us out again, didn’t I?” he says out loud, hands never wavering in their flight over the controls.

 

He had. Just not quite in time to avoid getting singed pretty thoroughly, and now the TARDIS’ energy banks are close to depleted. There are several ways to refuel, but with this recent trauma in mind, he settles on the quickest, safest one – Cardiff.

 

The TARDIS wheezes her way through materialisation on the plass with what feels like agreement. Safely touched down, crisis properly averted, the Doctor allows himself a quiet sigh of relief and leans back against the console – right around the time that the door springs open and Captain Jack Harkness gallops through.

 

*  


It had been a quiet week. While Jack is usually first in line for an adventure of the running-and-saving-people kind, the current quiet appeals to him. After three stressful months of invasion after invasion, both small and large scale, some time to metaphorically put his feet up is more than welcome. He’d given the rest of the team some time off too – they more than deserve it and with the hub so quiet he can easily keep an eye on things.

 

Things being, in this case, the sudden materialisation of a blue box right there on the plass. Jack bolts upright from his slouch, dismissing a stray thought about Pavlovian responses. His first instinct is to wonder how the world is ending this time. The second, to run before the TARDIS disappears again – and _that_ brings him up short. He’d chosen to stay on Earth, the last time. To stay in Cardiff with his team, to defend his adopted planet. The Doctor’s arrival now doesn’t change that, for all that Jack had suspected he would not see the Time Lord again for a very long time. Still, deciding not to travel with him again doesn’t mean that Jack hasn’t missed the Doctor, and before he can overthink things further he stands, grabs his overcoat, and makes his way up to the surface.

 

He half expects the TARDIS to have disappeared by the time he gets there. The other half is waiting for the Doctor to step out, with that manic, infectious grin of his, the sparkling eyes and swishy coat.

 

Nothing happens.

 

Jack reaches the doors, humming ever so slightly under his touch, a distant sense of _openness_ , hesitates only for a moment, then strides in.

 

The console room looks distinctly like a small bomb had gone off, but the Doctor isn’t rushing about as usual, putting out literal and metaphorical fires. Instead he’s leaning against the console, face turned downwards in a rare show of tiredness, no doubt only allowed as he thinks himself alone. The Doctor’s unruly hair is even more messy than usual, standing up in stressed tufts.

 

“Doc? Everything all right?”

 

The Doctor doesn’t flinch, but there is a tightness around his eyes when he looks up that takes a moment to smoothe out.

 

“Fine, fine, not to worry. All under control.”

 

Which might have been more convincing if a bit of his pinstripe suit hadn’t chosen to start smouldering at that exact moment, causing the Doctor to yelp and hurriedly pat at his thigh.

 

Still, when he looks up again he’s smiling that wide, joyous smile that Jack is helpless to return every single time it’s directed at him. “Jack! You certainly didn’t waste any time.”

 

“We do monitor the rift, you know. The TARDIS isn’t exactly inconspicuous.”

 

“Oh, most people manage to miss her just fine,” the Doctor says, eyes suddenly intent. “But that was never you, was it, Jack?”

 

Jack shrugs. “What happened?”

 

“Got into a little spot of bother with some Sontarans and the Rutan Host.” The Doctor frowns, twirling his finger through the air. “Come to think of it, this may have been the only armistice between those two in recorded history. Nothing so unifying as their worst enemy dropping by in the middle of a fire-fight.”

 

Jack suspects that made more sense in the Doctor’s head, but lets it pass. “What were you even doing there?”

 

“Star-gazing, of course,” the Doctor says, as if Jack is being a bit slow. His eyes flicker to the door, behind Jack. “How did you get in, anyway? I didn’t hear a key.”

 

“Door was open.”

 

The Doctor winces. “Oh, she must really want some alone time. She’s a bit mad at me right now – entirely unfounded, but it’s hard to argue with your ship.” He taps his lips. “Then again, she _has_ always liked you. Either way, I’ll be stuck here for a couple of days. Well, a week. Week and a half, tops.”

 

“It’s fine, Doc,” Jack interrupts, before the Doctor can get a full steam going, ignoring the displeased (read: adorable) nose-wrinkle the nickname never fails to elicit. “I don’t mind. Won’t be the end of the world if you stay with me for a bit.”

 

“It might,” the Doctor grouses. “Seems to be the way my luck is going lately. It’s usually either that or terminal boredom on this planet of yours. Did I ever tell you about that time I got stranded in a junkyard?”

 

Jack grins. “Come on, I’m sure we can find something to...occupy you for a few days.”

 

He winks. The Doctor scowls. (Also adorable. Jack is going to have to start a list at this rate.)

 

“We’re not doing _that_.”

 

Interestingly, the answer lacks some of the conviction of previous rebuffs, and Jack’s grin widens. “Spoilsport.”

 

The responding glare is mild by Doctor standards.

 

“So what _do_ you want to do? Cardiff is your oyster.”

 

The Doctor opens his mouth, no doubt to make some sort of comment on quaint Earth sayings that make no logical sense, then halts, looking vaguely puzzled.

 

“I think I’m having a craving,” he announces, brows furrowed. “Haven’t had one of those in a while. Chips! I want chips. One of humanity’s better inventions. Molest potatoes with fat until they’re hardly recognisable and somehow it turns into genius taste. Almost as good as bananas. Haven’t had proper chips in ages, the TARDIS tries, bless her, but it’s never quite right. Not enough grease.”

 

Jack might have wondered about this nine-hundred-year-old alien who gets excited about chips in between deposing regimes and bringing change everywhere he goes, if he hadn’t seen the Doctor do (and get excited about) _much_ weirder things.

 

“I know a good chippie a couple of streets away,” he offers, once the stream of words has finally broken up enough for him to get a word in edgewise.

 

The Doctor gives him a sidelong glance. “Gone native, have you?”

 

“Believe me, Doctor, for someone who’s in charge of a group of humans who are routinely _very_ stressed, it pays to know these things. I also know every decent pizza place in Cardiff’s opening times and delivery rates.”

 

“Adaptable as always,” the Doctor comments, but seems disinclined to elaborate. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his brown overcoat and strides towards the doors. “Allons-y!”

 

Whatever Jack had expected from this day, it hadn’t involved watching the Doctor savour every bite of soggy chips from his white styrofoam tray, after drowning the poor buggers in vinegar and salt. Jack had long finished his own burger bun by the time the Doctor finally sticks the last piece into his mouth, thoughtfully sucking his fingers in a way that has a certain part of Jack’s anatomy immediately interested. Not many people can make eating greasy chips look even remotely erotic, but clearly the Doctor strives to be as unusual in this as he is in everything else.

 

The quick winter dark had fallen during their meal and Jack huddles into his coat against the bitingly cold wind. The Doctor doesn’t show any sign of noticing the chill, coat flapping lightly in the breeze, unbuttoned as always. Without the distraction of the chips, he looks almost… bereft. Lost.

 

Jack snaps out of his daze – _time to have a_ _lustful_ _meltdown later, Harkness –_ and injects cheer into his voice when he says, “All right then, Doc. Let’s go back to mine for the night.”

 

The Doctor looks suspicious. “I can sleep in the TARDIS – ” he begins, then winces, one hand coming up to rub at his temple. “Or maybe not. Chez Harkness it is.” He winces again. “And I’m never saying that again.”

 

Not for the first time Jack is glad that he’d moved out of the Hub and got his own little flat five minutes away from the plass. He’d kept his room, of course, and still overnights in the Hub more often than most people in this day and age would call healthy, but at least he has somewhere to take the Doctor that isn’t full of shiny temptations in the form of time-displaced alien tech.

 

“Do we need to swing by the TARDIS to pick anything up?”

 

“Best not, she’s giving me a headache. I’ll let her cool down for a few hours.”

 

“You’re having a domestic,” Jack translates.

 

“Nothing so humdrum. A temporally-charged difference of opinion.”

 

 _Domestic_ , Jack repeats silently, though he does wonder whether perhaps whatever is going on isn’t just due to this latest trouble with the Sontarans.

 

“I can lend you a pair of pyjamas,” he offers instead.

 

The Doctor snorts. “I wouldn’t have thought you even own sleepwear.”

 

“They are useful for lounging comfortably,” Jack says in his best prim voice and is rewarded by a quick grin. “Besides, I can accept that there are times that nudity isn’t called for in bed. Not like it, mind, but accept it.”

 

“Dancing to a different tune these days, aren’t we.”

 

Jack shrugs “If the normal approach doesn’t work...”

 

There’s a peculiar look on the Doctor’s face, something almost like chagrin, but it’s gone before Jack can figure it out.

 

 

 

 

As soon as Jack has turned the key, the Doctor pushes through the door and bounds up the stairs to the flat proper. With undue enthusiasm, Jack privately thinks, but then the Doctor has always been curious about anything unexpected – and to him Jack settled down in one place, with a flat and a kitchen and _bills_ probably qualifies. While Jack has (officially) been with Torchwood for months now, the Doctor only learned of it when they met up again at the end of the universe, and then they’d both been occupied by other things for a while.

 

By the time Jack enters the living room, he Doctor is flitting around the space, staring at everything and anything, picking up the odd item and occasionally making small contemptuous sounds over perfectly ordinary things – like one of Jack’s jumpers (“ _Really_ , Jack?”, as if he’s one to talk), the toaster (“As likely to blow up as it is to burn crumpets – rubbish”) and a small figurine of a dancer Gwen had given him as a gag gift (“Love a nice figurine, me, when they’re not trying to take over the world, but this one’s a bit judgemental”).

 

Jack watches for a while, feeling increasingly surreal about the whole thing.

 

Eventually, he clears his throat and points to the door on the left.

 

“Guest bedroom, though I have to inform you that my bed is much bigger and more comfortable.”

 

The Doctor only waves at him distractedly, so Jack adds, “I’m going to go to bed. Work in the morning and all that.”

 

That at least warrants an equally distracted goodnight wish. He takes it as a victory. Though he doesn’t need as much rest as he used to these days, Jack likes sleeping – on the nightmare-free nights anyway – and he’s still tired from the last few months, the few snatched hours here and there. So he leaves the Doctor pawing through Jack’s few token books – he’s too used to data readers to ever become friends with paper books – and does actually head to bed. While he undresses, he wonders how long it had been since the Year That Never Was for the Doctor. The Time Lord exudes his normal frenetic energy, bouncing all over the place, but when he stands still long enough to truly be looked at, Jack finds shadows in his eyes, lurking beneath the cheerful facade. Then again, Jack’s first Doctor had been like that too, without any help from the Master. Besides, Jack suspects that the kind of hurt the Doctor is hiding wouldn’t be helped by a year or two. Blunted a little, maybe, but not truly soothed.

 

Still, it probably hadn’t been that long for him – the Doctor hasn’t picked up a new companion, after all.

 

Jack drops off to sleep quickly, despite the niggling worry that the Doctor would be gone when he wakes up again.

 

 

He wakes only once during the night, with the echo of what might have been a strangled shout. But when he strains to listen in the dark all is quiet, and by the time soft footsteps leaves the guest room he has fallen asleep again.

 

 

It’s a carefully-guarded secret that Jack isn’t actually all that fond of mornings – though he’s excellent at pretending, if obnoxious early morning cheerfulness is called for – so it takes him a few moments to realise that something is different after his slow shuffle out of the bedroom. He squints at the door security panel. It’s state of the art – in the fifty-first century – the one anachronistic luxury he allows himself, and _s_ _omething_ isn’t quite right about it.

 

“Doctor?” he calls.

 

The Doctor’s head pops up over the kitchen counter with the air of someone who’s trying very hard to look like he’s done nothing at all that could be construed as a problem.

 

“Ah, morning, Jack. Took you long enough.” The Doctor straightens. He’s cradling Jack’s toaster under one arm, and the sonic looks to be rapidly disappearing into one of his bottomless pockets.

 

He deposits the toaster onto the counter. Said appliance whirs. A very familiar whir.

 

Jack sighs. “Doctor, did you make my toaster sonic?”

 

“Really useful, sonic toasters! No more pesky waiting for your toast to be done just right – instant browning!”

 

“How likely is it to explode the next time I try to use it?”

 

“No chance at all. Though I would stay away from the highest setting if I were you. There might be some teeny tiny side-effects. Nothing to worry about.”

 

Jack considers pursuing the topic and then gives it up as a bad job. The Doctor always does as he pleases.

 

“Did you mess with my security system?” he asks, mostly so he _doesn’t_ ask whether the Doctor had slept at all last night. It isn’t his business. He might want it to be, but the Doctor is worse than a cat when it comes to these things, all bristly fur and warning hisses, so he’ll keep his distance for as long as he needs to. Which in his case might be the heat death of the universe, but who’s counting.

 

The Doctor brightened. “Oh, yes, improved it, see?” He bounds over to the door, opens it, sticks his arm out. The vortex manipulator on Jack’s wrist, coupled to the Hub’s alerts and his security, starts vibrating at the same time that a blaring klaxon sound fills the room.

 

“Turn it off! I’ve got neighbours!”

 

The Doctor grins and withdraws his hand. One jab with the sonic and the security system falls silent again.

 

“Any non-human bio-readings and it goes off,” the Doctor explains, looking rather pleased with himself. “Should probably programme Time Lords in as accepted visitors, though, or the next few days are going to be quite loud.”

 

Jack suspects he’s going to appreciate the upgrade a lot more in a couple of days, because while it sounds useful a headache is already brewing behind his eyes and at this rate he’s going to be late for work.

 

“Right, you do that. I’m going to have breakfast and then I’ll go to the Hub. Please don’t accidentally explode the flat while I’m out.”

 

Jack is pretty sure the Doctor is joking when he mutters, “Spoilsport.”

 

Pretty sure.

 

“I’m going to be busy fixing the TARDIS anyway. That’ll take me a couple of days.”

 

Relieved, Jack heads off to yet another day of keeping the Earth safe happily enough.

 

 

 

‘A couple of days’ turn out to be three days of non-stop tinkering, most of which goes way above Jack’s head whenever he wanders by the TARDIS, even though the Doctor showed him some of her systems and the rudimentary flight controls way back when. The Doctor seems calmer in those moment, hands busy and actively fixing things, and Jack makes it a point to keep coming by because seeing that kind of serenity in him feels precious in a deceptively fragile way. Even when his head tells him that the Doctor is about as fragile as a hunk of Dalekanium. The heart wants what it wants, thinks what it thinks, and he still doesn’t know what exactly it is about the Doctor’s smile that makes him warm in all the non-sexual ways he usually shies away from, nor why he was so quick to forgive the Doctor his betrayal and abandonment. It just is.

 

Then again, by human standards a century isn’t all that quick.

 

 

*

 

 

The Doctor has fond memories of tinkering with the TARDIS with Jack at his side, and despite the expected rush of bittersweet nostalgia, he’s enjoying himself today as well.

 

Even when Jack starts telling him about the time that the rift had spat out a Cardellian and none of them had had any clue as to why their health had decreased rapidly, safe in the Hub as they were. Jack’s motives in telling this particular story are incredibly transparent, but the Doctor finds himself not minding so much. He sees it as the progress it is in their long journey back from the Doctor’s betrayal on the Gamestation.

 

This Jack – more daring, yet less loud about it, and, _thank_ _T_ _ime,_ secure enough in his place to be willing to at least indirectly ask questions he wouldn’t have touched before.

 

It also helps that the story ends more or less happily, with a family group of Cardellians plunging through the rift after their lost mate before it was too late, and Jack learning about a species that literally depended on sex for their survival by witnessing a full-blown orgy take place in the middle of the Hub. _That_ bit of retelling is accompanied by a wide grin because ‘incorrigible’ may as well be Jack’s middle name.

 

“Interesting species, the Cardellians,” the Doctor muses. “Never did find out what circumstances led to that particular evolutionary strain. Something related to chemicals released into the bloodstream during intercourse. Still, not very practical.”

 

Jack’s leer looks to be more reflexive than anything else. “Fun though, right?”

 

The Doctor doesn’t reply and Jack sobers again.

 

“Do you really never…?”

 

The question trails off, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it had been aiming at. The Doctor sighs. “Not my area, Jack.”

 

Jack’s eyes are keen, for once not bothering to hide his intellect behind charm and affability. “Is it a Time Lord thing or a you thing?”

 

“A me thing,” the Doctor confirms, allowing some of his tension to syphon away in the face of Jack’s calm acceptance. “Not that the Time Lords were ever… Sex was seen as something base, _rude_ , more than anything else.” He slants a look. “ _Certainly_ not for publicly acknowledging.”

 

Jack smiles, a warm little thing that lights up his eyes this time, acknowledging the pointed tease.

 

“And the rest?” he asks quietly, gazes fixed on the Doctor, steady and immutable. Just like Jack himself.

 

“The rest is interpretation,” the Doctor says, and steps forward.

 

*

 

It’s the least sexual kiss on the lips Jack has ever participated in, but the intimacy is blinding, like looking right into a sun going nova, except it involves _all_ the senses.

 

It’s a goodbye, too, he knows and almost regrets that he deliberately waited to broach this topic until the TARDIS is nearly ready to go.

 

 

In the morning, the Doctor is gone.

 

Jack isn’t surprised. He had expected the Doctor to run, though he had hoped he wouldn’t. Now all he can do is hope that eventually he would run _back_ to him.

 

Good thing he has become rather good at waiting.

 

 

 

 

 

**2\. Donna**

 

After three consecutive adventures that ended in running and near-death experiences, Donna had declared a rest day. Even though it has been a long, _long_ time indeed since anyone had ordered him about quite as stringently as Donna Noble does so easily, the Doctor hadn’t had the heart to argue with her.

 

Which is how he finds himself aimlessly wandering the TARDIS while Donna is “sleeping in for once and don’t you dare wake me up for anything less than the universe ending, spaceboy”.

 

He knows he’s on thin ice when she calls him that. _Spaceman_ is fine, but _spaceboy_ is Donna with a bee in her bonnet.

 

He frowns at the thought. Bees. He should get around to investigating that one of these days.

 

The library holds his attention for a couple of hours, but his reading speed isn’t conducive to getting lost in a book and he doesn’t have the focus to slow himself down. Ever since Midnight there’s been an itch under his skin – one he’d been hoping to cure with a bit more running. Preferably away from moderately worrying danger. Nothing too bad, but enough to get his hearts pounding and distract even _his_ brain.

 

The tranquil gardens hold him for all of ten minutes. The wilderness garden manages twenty.

 

 _Don’t you ever do nothing?_ Donna asks in his head, and he almost snarls. Humans may find it easy to while away their time, but when one has a timer in the back of one’s mind ticking away hours, minutes, seconds, _milliseconds_ every moment of every day, the whole concept of willingly wasting time becomes anathema. Or at least wasting time by doing absolutely nothing – wasting time by doing silly things is encouraged, as far as the Doctor is concerned.

 

He isn’t in the mood.

 

Eventually, as he always does, he finds his way back to the console room. There’re always repairs and upgrades to be done on his old girl, after all. She’s been without proper Time Lord maintenance for so long now it’s a small miracle she’s still flying at all.

 

That earns him the mental equivalent of a slap upside the head and a brief grin lights his face despite himself. She can always cheer him up, can his old girl, unless his mood is truly black – and even then, she at least makes him feel less alone.

 

He’s happily rooting around in her south cabling, lying below the grating, the TARDIS’ faint green glow cradling his form, when there’s a hiccup in the time stream. Well, not so much a hiccup as a tremor bordering on a shockwave. It’s not that unusual, really – time is much less static than his human companies can really comprehend and sometimes small twists can reverberate in ways that only a Time Lord (or a TARDIS) has the necessary faculties to detect, but the Doctor hadn’t been expecting it, on top of still being a bit psychically...sore from his recent misadventure. He startles and his elbow lands right in the coiling for the inertial dampeners. There’s a little _blip_ , a bit of a wobble and then the TARDIS _shakes_. Properly shakes, throwing him against the grating even as he frantically scrabbles to realign the connection his elbow had thrown out of whack.

 

Through his link with the TARDIS he can feel Donna go from slumber to anger in 2.53 seconds.

 

Oops.

 

His fingers hit on the right cable and he strains upward, ignoring the continued shaking of his ship around him until he twists just right and the cable slides back into place. From one set of heartbeats to the next everything quiets. Quieter than normal even, which is as much apology as the TARDIS can really give them, for all that this had been mostly his fault.

 

The quiet lasts for another five seconds. Then determined stomping echoes down the corridor into the control room and the Doctor, somewhat hastily, drags himself back up above the floor grating. It doesn’t do to start the conversation (read: disagreement via shouting) from a position of weakness. Donna is already good enough at seeming like she’s looking down at you even though she’s definitely smaller than him. He has checked. With a tape. From some distance, while she was distracted because he isn’t an idiot (most of the time).

 

Fully braced for shouting, he blinks in some surprise when Donna just looks him up and down, then says, “All fixed, is it? No more impressions of being on a plane in a hurricane?”

 

He might’ve been offended on the TARDIS’ behalf at the comparison, but he’s too wrong-footed. Donna must’ve seen something in his face that made her put aside her irritation. She’s full of bluster, yes, but never cruel, and this regeneration is so much worse than the previous one at keeping his emotions off his face. He doesn’t usually mind, but it can be a little disquieting, to be read so easily. Or maybe that’s just Donna, who he sometimes thinks _gets_ him in a way none of his recent companions have.

 

“Yep, it’s all fine, all good. Just a little wobble in the timestream, nothing to worry about.”

 

He expects her to grumble, poke at him a bit and then go back to bed. But Donna just keeps looking at him. He scratches the back of the neck, avoiding her gaze even thought he knows it makes him look guilty.

 

She seems to come to some kind of decision. “All right then,” she says, decisive as usual, and points a finger at him. “You, with me. Leave the poor TARDIS alone for a bit.”

 

The Doctor trails after her, half confused half curious, which admittedly isn’t an unusual state of being for him. Okay, so usually it’s more sixty percent curious, thirty percent excited and ten percent confused, but his point still stands.

 

She leads him to the kitchen, which doesn’t do much to clear up his puzzlement. Donna shoves him down onto a chair, then pushes a steaming mug at him two minutes later. He sniffs appreciatively – his current taste buds are very fond of hot chocolate, as Donna well knows.

 

The Doctor sits quietly for once, letting Donna’s chatter wash over him him (friends back home, that one time she went shopping in Oxford Street with her mate, her mother’s latest complaints).

 

It’s almost enough to make him forget his restlessness.

 

The next day, he pilots the TARDIS to a beach famous in three galaxies for its turquoise sand.

 

 

 

**3\. Amy and Rory**

 

 

After the universe is reset, things calm down for a while – or rather, the Ponds are busy having sex on every available (and some very clearly _unavailable –_ he’s starting to think that he needs to start labelling things as OFF LIMITS in big red letters) surface, which means he’s busy going on solo adventures and pretending he doesn’t know that they’ve mutated into rabbits after the wedding. The couple of times he accidentally walks in on them, he manages to back out without anyone but him the wiser, which at least saves him _that_ embarrassing discussion.

 

So he’s a little surprised when, on day three, Amy comes looking for him in the console room.

 

“Pond!” he says, smiling widely because he hasn’t really seen either Amy or Rory in days and he’d started talking to himself again. “Run out of surfaces?”

 

Amy eyes him strangely, before visibly deciding not to try and follow his thought processes.

“Where are we right now?” she asks, chewing a little on her lip in a way that makes it clear she’s got something on her mind that she’s unsure about voicing.

 

“The vortex.” The Doctor gives the console a loving pat. “Just had a lovely time on Araxus IV, but there was some cross shouting at the end so I figured better give her a rest somewhere else.”

 

Amy nods, clearly entirely uninterested in the answer to her question.

 

He watches her for a moment longer, then takes pity. “Pond, everything all right?”

 

“Yes, fine, everything is great,” she says, and sounds honest enough that he relaxes again. “Just, could you...take us somewhere I can go shopping?”

 

The Doctor frowns, hand freezing over the wibbly lever. “Is the TARDIS not providing what you need? I can have a word with her – ”

 

“No, nothing like that,” Amy says quickly. “I just want to get something nice for Rory.”

 

He knows there must be more to it than that, but he keeps quiet and lets her speak.

 

“All this time everyone has been acting as if Rory is the lucky one for me to be paying attention to him, but it’s not… it’s not really like that at all, is it? He was dead and then he was alive again and a Roman for two thousand years and through all that time he kept loving me, as if nothing else mattered, not the dying, not the Roman-ness, not anything. How could I possibly deserve that kind of loyalty? If anyone’s the lucky one it’s me.”

 

The Doctor smiles at her, absurdly proud. “Oh, Pond, you’re missing the point. You’re _both_ lucky. And Rory would tell you the same. You’re good for each other. Don’t make it into a loyalty contest, eh?” In his mind, the TARDIS’ hum grows a little louder, approving. “So, back to England for a spell then?”

 

And now Amy finally grins, excitement lighting her eyes. “There’s got to be some kind of space bazaar or something where we can go, right? Something a little more interesting than London.”

 

“Oh, if you want _interesting_.” The Doctor’s smile widens. “Hold on, Pond. And get your husband.”

 

 

 

Rory isn’t entirely sure what chain of events led to him racing down some alien highway in a borrowed Jaguar, but it went something like this:

 

The Doctor lands them on some planet with an unpronounceable name that’s apparently the best for shopping in this corner of the universe (Rory’s going to take his word on that) and entirely safe, so when Amy wants to go off on her own, the Doctor turns to Rory and goes, “That’s fine, Rory and I can go do manly things, like... look at cars? I have it on good authority that every bloke likes cars. Or was that dinosaurs? Or maybe fidget spinners? I always get the Earth decades confused. Though, frankly, the entire concept of dividing interests by gender is a bit ridiculous anyway, you humans always want to neatly box up everything – ”

 

And so on, until Rory agrees to go with him just to shut him up and doesn’t even point out that the Doctor is possibly the least likely candidate for doing ‘manly things’ Rory knows. He doesn’t think the Doctor would be offended, but Rory isn’t in the mood for a lecture on cultural norms.

The Doctor must either have been here before or possess some weird alien never-wrong sense of direction, for he unerringly leads Rory to a place that looks like a cross between a parking lot and an outdoor showroom. It’s full of cars and small aircraft and even spaceships. His mouth is probably hanging open, but Rory doesn’t care. The amount of technology, shining metal, strange alien designs is breath-taking.

 

They amble through the rows, the Doctor chattering away about this model and that (he seems to have driven most of them, at one point or another, if his stories are to be believed), until Rory suddenly stops, gaze caught by a bright flash of red.

 

“That’s my favourite car! Jaguar E-Type convertible.” Rory knows he’s gaping at the car’s sleek, polished lines, but: “What’s it doing _here_? That’s an Earth car.”

 

The Doctor shrugs. “Humans end up everywhere eventually, Rory. Bit like rats. Except more violent and innovative, and capable of such kindness it can take your breath away. And this is a trading hub – all sorts of things come through here, from all over.” A shadow passes over his angular face. “Even found some bits of a broken TARDIS here once, and those are are about as rare as a moral Dalek since the war.”

 

Before Rory can think of how to awkwardly express his sympathy, the Doctor suddenly brightens again, clapping his hands. “So, do you want to drive it?”

 

That, in retrospect, had been the moment Rory had doomed himself. They had been driving for around fifteen minutes, with the Doctor graciously _not_ commenting on Rory’s driving more than once every two minutes, when Rory had noticed that the same two motorbikes (space motorbikes? Space bikes?) had been following them through the last three turns.

 

“Uh, Doctor?”

 

The Doctor takes one look at his expression and twists around in his seat so he can peer through the rear window.

 

“Ah,” he says, which isn’t reassuring at all. “Rory, do you think you could give it a little more welly?”

 

Rory steps on the gas. “Why?”

 

“We really, definitely, positively don’t want them to catch up with us.”

 

This is starting to look horribly similar to a number of movies Amy had made him watch over the years. “Please tell me we aren’t currently being chased by the alien equivalent of a _biker gang_?”

 

The Doctor sounds supernaturally calm, even as Rory takes a corner at double the recommended speed. “They’re not really a biker gang, Rory, more like the local mafia. Nasty lot.”

 

“And they have a grudge against you?” Not that Rory would find that hard to believe. The Doctor makes enemies like he makes friends – indiscriminately, and in the strangest places.

 

“Got in their way a few years back.” The Doctor’s voice turns steely. “They kidnapped a young child for ransom. I disagreed.”

 

That, really, is all that’s necessary to say on the subject. The Doctor has a soft spot for children the universe wide, and if he _disagrees_ with someone, be it a single person or a powerful business conglomerate, it never ends well for the someone in question.

 

“Didn’t think they’d recognise me actually. Their tech must be better than I remember.”

 

“Great!” Edge of hysteria, check. “Any idea how to get away from them?”

 

In response, a slow smile spreads over the Doctor’s face, which is _not at all_ terrifying. They’re so going to die, and then Amy is going to revive him just to kill him again.

 

 

 

 

Amy stalks through the doors to the planetary security station, bags swinging from both arms and glaring. Not because she’s too put out that she’s finishing her shopping trip by coming to bail out her two boys, but she’s got to keep up _some_ appearances.

 

The Doctor, going by his blinding grin even through the bars of the cell, doesn’t buy it for a second.

 

“Pond! About time you got here!”

 

Amy glances at Rory, who’s sitting on the cell’s low bench but looks no worse for wear.

 

“Not like I knew I’d have to _bail you two out_ at the end of the day. How’d you even get here?”

 

“Protective custody!” the Doctor claims, sounding sincere even though Amy knows he’s full of bullshit.

 

“That and the massive damage to a bridge,” Rory pipes up, rolling his eyes. The Doctor looks unrepentant.

 

“Why exactly are they letting you out again?” Amy asks, as one of the officers walks past her to open the cell door.

 

“I helped take down the local mafia a couple of years ago,” the Doctor says, and this time Rory doesn’t interject, so it’s probably true. Sounds like something the Doctor would do anyway. “Unfortunately they rebuilt a bit in the meantime, which is how your brilliant husband ended up fulfilling his life-long dream of becoming a racing driver, but after today it’ll take them awhile to get out of the security force’s scrutiny again.”

 

Which, on this planet, apparently excuses the wholesale destruction of a bridge to stop pursuers. Then again, it might just be the Doctor’s sweet-talking.

 

“Tell me,” she says, as the three of them head back out into the sunshine, “have you ever managed to take someone shopping without causing a planetary incident?”

 

The Doctor throws an arm around her shoulders. “Of course I have! There was that one time on Balafalaya, no, wait, the President did get assassinated while we were there but that wasn’t my fault – ”

 

Amy trades a look with Rory and stifles a laugh. She’d put money on the Doctor not shutting up before they reach the TARDIS and _still_ not finding one example of a peaceful shopping trip.

 

 

 

 

 

**4\. River**

 

 

Normally, the sound of the TARDIS materialising fills her with mix of excitement and fondness. The Doctor, after all, makes sure that her nights away from Stormcage are never boring and he’s been particularly charming lately. Normally, however, she doesn’t have a splitting headache and sore ankle from the last scrape he got her into (all right, she had helped to get them into it, but her point stands). By the time the blue box stands innocently in the corner of her cell, she hasn’t moved from her spot on her pallet, arm flung over her eyes.

 

Normally she’d have made her way through the doors by now, so when the Doctor pokes his head out he looks quizzical.

 

“River?”

 

She closes her eyes again. “Here.”

 

“I can see that.” His footsteps thud quietly on the hard floor. “Question is why you aren’t over here.”

 

A cool hand brushes her brow and she almost sighs. There’s an underlying current in his voice that she can’t quite identify when he asks, “Harmless or targeted?”

 

“Largely harmless, I think. But I can’t say I feel up to the usual running right now.”

 

His hand returns, this time to her shoulder. “We could do something slow. There doesn’t always have to be running.”

 

She smiles, wider and somewhat truer than her usual smirk. That he cares enough to offer is… sweet. “Sweetie, you’re terrible at domestic.”

 

That gets her a patented offended Doctor look, complete with slight puffing up. “Oi, I can do domestic! A bit. Sometimes.”

 

“Look, Doctor, I’m just really not up for anything strenuous.”

 

The way he can go from faintly ridiculous to heart-stoppingly serious still sometimes leaves her reeling.

 

“There’s this beach, on Telan, with green water and near-pink sand and perfect temperatures,” he says quietly. His eyes don’t waver from hers. “The planet has been uninhabited for millennia, clear on the other side of the universe.”

 

She takes her time to think it over. While she truly doesn’t feel great, she _would_ hate to miss out on time with the Doctor away from Stormcage.

 

“No running?”

 

He smiles. “Absolutely no running at all, Doctor Song.”

 

_Oh, what the hell._

 

 

 

Telan is just as beautiful as the Doctor had promised, and when River steps out onto the beach five minutes later, she stops for a moment to take it all in.

 

The Doctor steps out next to her, and a quick sideways glance finds him looking surprisingly content.

 

“I don’t have a great track record with beaches,” he admits, sounding a little sheepish, “but as far as I know absolutely nothing has ever happened here, so we should be safe. What do you think?”

 

River looks out over the green waves. There’s still a dull thudding behind her eyes, but the air is fresh and clear in her lungs and the light low enough not to be piercing. “I think it’s perfect, Sweetie.”

 

 

 

She doesn’t know why she’s even surprised when they end up running for the TARDIS, the Doctor carrying River who is shooting over his shoulder because large furry predators have taken a shine to their scent.

 

It’s a harmless end to a day that has almost managed to be relaxing, by Doctor standards. And he does always look a bit like a kicked puppy when his plans go awry. She probably shouldn’t enjoy that as much as she does, but a girl has got to get her amusement somewhere when her husband is a mind-bogglingly old time traveller.

 

 

 

 

**5\. Jack (again)**

 

 

If he hadn’t known where to look, even Jack might have missed what appeared to be a slightly mistier than average patch of air in a scraggly London park, ca. 1890. In typical Doctor fashion there’s no security beyond the absurdity of a dangling ladder leading up to a fabricated cloud. Jack sticks his key into the TARDIS lock and steps in, a little surprised to find the Doctor actually in the control room, dressed in a dark purple, velvet frock coat and looking more resigned than happy to see him.

 

“TARDIS on a cloud in Victorian London,” Jack observes, sticking his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat. “Stylish.”

 

The Doctor sighs. “How did you find me, Jack?”

 

“Maybe I’ve developed a sixth sense for your particular style of brooding,” Jack says, all studied innocence and razored barbs. _Or maybe your always-loyal friends called me because they’re worried about you._

 

The Doctor gives him an old-fashioned look but doesn’t deny it. Not that even his legendary gob could talk him out of the accusation, what with the depression outfit and literally _hiding on a cloud_. It is a little worrying that he isn’t even trying – is, in fact, incongruously quiet, simply watching Jack with those old, old eyes.

 

Jack takes a deep breath. “The Ponds?”

 

“Safe.” The Doctor’s voice is brittle. “Unreachable.”

 

So Rose and Donna all over again. Except he’d hung onto the young pair longer than any of his other recent companions, so the sting of loss would be particularly painful, and he hasn’t picked up anyone new to smooth over the edges. No wonder the man is going off the rails. Well, going off the rails quietly, privately, in a mostly metaphorical sense.

 

Jack can sympathise more and more, the older he gets.

 

“One of these days you’ll tell me how you’ve made it this long.”

 

The Doctor’s laugh is tinged with bitterness. “Believe me, Jack, you don’t want to know.”

 

“And yet I’ll still find out, whether I want to or not,” he says, mildly enough.

 

It had taken him years to break the Doctor from his reflexive guilt at any mention of Jack’s immortality and to the point where he can, now, acknowledge the point with a wry tilt of his lips.

 

“True,” the Doctor says, “but I’m hoping you’ll avoid some of my mistakes.”

 

Jack could point out that it would be easier to do so if the Doctor told him what he considers his mistakes to _be_ , but truth be told he already knows a lot of it and he never prefers cruelty if he can help it. Another thing the Doctor taught him.

 

Silence falls, more comfortable than not, but the air remains heavy. While Jack leans against the rail running around the console space, the Doctor engages in a bit of distracted fiddling with the controls, but his overall stillness is worrying in its uncharacteristicness and it’s clear that he has no intention of actually moving the TARDIS.

 

Clearly more drastic measures are called for. “Sooo,” Jack drawls, drawing the word out obnoxiously, “how is this whole hiding on a cloud thing working out for you? Leaving planets unsaved, civilisations falling to ruins, and such.”

 

The Doctor turns to him, head cocked. There’s a hint of the expected irritation in the slant of his mouth, but Jack is startled to mostly find painful, _clear_ understanding in his expression.

 

“It does as well as most other things,” the Doctor says, skating just at the edge of pitying. “Passes the time.”

 

Jack knows the set of his own expression is mutinous, and for just a moment the Doctor’s bearing softens, away from weariness into simple kindness.

 

“Everyone needs to go away and lick their wounds sometimes Jack. I put it off too long and now I need the time. Not even I can always keep running.”

 

For the first time since Vastra and Jenny called him, Jack truly begins to believe that he isn’t going to be able to shake the Doctor out of this. And perhaps he shouldn’t either. He’s seen bitterness, yes, tiredness and a wariness of the world that’s, frankly, wrong to find in the Doctor of all people, but the little glimpse of truth the Doctor has just afforded him shows more than anything else could have done that he _needs_ this time – and that Jack isn’t the one who will shake him out of his funk. A new companion might, though how the Doctor is going to find one sitting on a cloud he doesn’t know. Then again, it’s the Doctor. He always manages, willing companions all but jumping out of the woodwork wherever he goes. And Jack can always come back in a little while to check up on him.

 

The Doctor has kept still and silent while Jack thought his words over, no doubt aware of the gist of what he’s thinking.

 

Finally, Jack takes his hands out of his pockets and steps closer, close enough he could brush the velvet material of the Doctor’s coat if he reached out.

 

“Does loving them make it worse?”

 

The Doctor looks startled, as if the question is one with so obvious an answer he hadn’t expected Jack to ask it. “Of course it does. And infinitely better, too.” He leans forward a little, old eyes boring into Jack’s. “I love everyone I ever travelled with. Sometimes instantly, sometimes gradually, sometimes too late. But I always love you. Even when you have faded from me.” He smiles, sweet and bitter all at once. “Two hearts, working overtime.”

 

Jack raises a brow. “I’ve been popping in and out of your life for centuries. I’m not fading.”

 

The Doctor’s eyes are hooded. “Not now, no.” He cocks his head, reading all the things Jack isn’t saying from his face, his voice, his stance. “I’m frightfully dreadful at domestic life, you realise.”

 

“Plenty of evidence for that, yes. I think I’ve still got that sonic toaster knocking about somewhere.” Jack smiles, as full and honest as he can. “I’m not asking you for domestic, Doctor. Never have. But forever gets lonely.”

 

The Doctor’s lips quirk, _don’t I know it_ , and then he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Jack’s lips. No heat, no pressure more contained intimacy than even Jack knows what to do with.

 

Life in the orbit of the Doctor.

 

 

 

 


End file.
